There Comes A Time
by izziexxx
Summary: "There comes a time when for every addition of knowledge you forget something that you knew before..." - Sherlock Holmes, A Study in Scarlett. John had thought his affliction an irritation, but John's 'shifts' through time start leading him deeper into the life of one Sherlock Holmes. As he ages Sherlock grows younger. There is only one possible end, and it's breaking John.


"_There comes a time when for every addition of knowledge you forget something that you knew before..."_ - Sherlock Holmes, A Study in Scarlett

John had thought his affliction an irritation, but nothing more, but finally when John's 'shifts' through time start leading him deeper and deeper into the life of one Sherlock Holmes he realises that this could be the most beautiful, and the most painful, thing to have ever happened to him. As he grows old his travels force him to watch Sherlock becoming younger and younger, less and less complete. Everything leads towards the inevitable, heart-breaking conclusion that John must prepare himself for, whilst preparing Sherlock for the road that John has already travelled.

The one rule: They shan't spoil the game.

For the johnlockbigbang 2012 on livejournal.(Link to art by liseli there.)

oOoOo

29th August 1992/20th February 2018

The first time he shifted properly he thought it was a dream.

So many sci-fi films and books called it jumping, but it really wasn't like that at all. He decided early on that shifting was a much better term. It wasn't a sudden shock, a change from one to the other that left him jarring on the floor, but instead it was much more like sliding sideways, melting slowly into another place, another time.

It would be more useful if he could control it. He could think of dozens of times where being able to escape would have been infinitely useful, but at least he had warning, sometimes a few days, sometimes only a few hours, but rarely any less than that. It started with a sense of nausea, or perhaps a migraine; it depended on how far he was travelling really.

His life had always been subject to déjà vu, but it happened to so many people that he didn't suspect that it could have been anything other than seeing things. It didn't occur to him that even as a toddler he had been shifting backwards and forwards a few minutes every few weeks. In retrospect he realised that it was as though he were a pendulum, never quite stationary once he had started swinging.

But, then something really started to give him impetus.

That first shift, the first meaningful one, happened when he had been trying to make the decision as to whether or not to apply for medical school. Already his sister had begun to show signs of alcoholism and his mother had found the truth of the matter hard to cope with. His father was a blue-collar sort of chap with a genetic distrust of education and those who sought to revel in it, they were all ponces and nancies as far as he was concerned. He and his entire family had made an honest living with nothing more than a basic comprehensive education and John was expected very soon to support his family (especially his sister) until such time that he decided to have one of his own.

Being a financial burden on his parents for the seven years it took to become a doctor wasn't a part of that.

Though this was the expectation, he also knew that he was, for want of a less offensive sentiment, _better_ than all that, and deep down he was sure his father knew it as well. John felt a strange sort of joy at the knowledge that Hamish Sr. had managed to spawn two children so bright that they made his head spin.

"You get all those smarts from your mother." He'd say affectionately, but still, university wasn't an option. "You don't need it," he insisted, even though so many professions called for it. "You wouldn't like it anyway." _'How would _you_ know?'_, John always felt inclined to spit in his face, but he knew better than to talk to his dad like that if he didn't expect a clout round the ear. He just didn't agree, to become a doctor he would need university, he'd need to live and breathe it, to love it.

John felt _called_ to it.

There was something about the idea of becoming a medical professional that clung to him as tightly as if god had descended from on high and said "Though shalt be a doctor and help the sick and the injured." He knew that there were plenty of doctors who didn't feel this way who were still good enough. If _they_ could do it then John didn't see why he, a person bright enough and driven enough, wouldn't be a valued addition to the profession.

Should he turn down what he swore to be his life's duty just because it didn't sit well with his father? Being smart was one thing, education was another. His dad was as distrustful of it as he was of politicians and poorly cooked chicken. It turned people into toffs with ideas above their station in his mind, and he didn't like it, not one bit.

This was the impasse that John found himself at.

He thought it was just the stress of the decision making that made him feel sick at first, the constant dull ache behind his eyes, and since the paracetamol wasn't doing a thing to touch it, he decided that heading to bed was the only course of action; he would sleep it off until it went away. However, as soon as his head hit the pillow he felt like he might go into convulsions he was so sick. The only thing that was stopping him from getting up and seeing if he could sleep standing upright was the certainty that he wouldn't make it that far.

It took a few minutes for his body to settle into anything like normal, but then he blinked up at the ceiling the pounding inside his head starting to melt away, as well as his consciousness. 'Thank fuck for that.'

John melting awake though was unusual. Normally he snapped out of dreams due to his alarm clock or blinked his eyes open a few times before rapidly feeling the need to do something, like go to the toilet. What John was aware of now was the colours on the ceiling melting from the dark blues thrown across the room in the night to the bright magnolia of the harsh midday sun. He must have fallen asleep and started dreaming. There was no other explanation his mind was supplying himself with right now.

The sheets were different as well, just added confirmation that this must have been a dream. It didn't _feel_ like a dream though. He wasn't ever self-aware in dreams, in this one he seemed to know that, logically, he must have been sleeping.

When a weight dipped the mattress next to him, he assumed that the very real sensations were going to be the point in time where he would wake up to the dog clambering up onto his bed.

"It's not the dog, John." A voice came, all too familiar, but John was still unable to place it. Whoever the voice belonged to, it made him scramble upright. This was either the most realistic dream he had ever had, or it wasn't a dream at all. He couldn't say for certain, but his gut instinct was telling him the go with the latter.

"Who are you?" He asked not even getting a good look at this stranger first, "Where have you taken me?"

"Stay calm, John." The stranger insisted, "Everything's fine, just breathe."

Despite these reassuring words, their effect was anything but calming. For all he knew he could have been in the hands of a psychotic murderer who got his kicks kidnapping vulnerable teenagers and then surgically removing their spleens.

"I'm not going to remove your spleen." That definitely made him take notice.

"How did you...?" John began, but he didn't really know how to finish that question. He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer even if he had managed it.

John took the time to really look at the stranger now that he was panicking a little less –despite having plenty of reason to still be frantic- and he was surprised to see a man who looked a lot like his mother, not that his mother looked like a man, but the shape of the face was very similar, as were the eyes. Perhaps this was some long lost cousin or disinherited uncle, but even as the thought crossed his mind he dismissed the notion as faintly ridiculous. He knew his family well, he wasn't close to any of his mother's siblings but none of them had been written out of the family history. Or at least he was pretty sure that they hadn't been.

If he was being honest it was almost like looking into a mirror, a tired, wrinkled, slightly grey mirror. "I'm not sure I appreciated being thought of as wrinkled and grey, but I suppose I would patronise a person at your age if I didn't know you so well."

"Know me?" John exclaimed in shock, "I've never met you before."

"You might not have met me before, but I have _been_ you, trust me when I say we are not strangers."

John was going to talk, to ask questions and insist that he get evidence handed to him, but there was a certainty in this man's – he couldn't quite bring himself to think 'John's' – words.

"You don't want to ask me," the possibly-not-quite-stranger stated, "but you'll feel better about everything if you do. Go ahead, I promise I won't go crazy or get angry."

John sat there for several minutes in tense silence, though perhaps it was only him who was tense, as the other man seemed quite relaxed, eventually though, once there had been a slow in those deep gulping breaths, he found the courage to simply say "show me."

The man smiled and asked John to shift over so there was an empty space on the mattress. A large scrap book was placed in front of him, he didn't question it, but it did seem a little. Girly...

"Well, in an ideal world I would show you my blog, but I don't want to scare you too much." He said with a grin, one all too familiar to John.

"What's a blog?"

"Don't worry, you'll find out soon enough, it'll be all the rage."

Rather than explaining further he opened the scrapbook which was full of newspaper clippings. "I think perhaps an introduction is in order before we look at these more carefully." The man said carefully setting the book to one side. Holding out a hand for John to shake. "My name is Doctor John H. Watson."

It wasn't as terrifying to hear as John thought it would be, at this point it actually made more sense than some of the other theories that had been floating around in his head. Not many admittedly, but some.

"_Doctor_?" John asked, "So what are you, my uncle or something?"

"Or something." The man, _John_ replied, not helping John's confusion that much. Rather than explaining further the doctor opened the scrap book to a few of the other articles

"It'll be difficult to understand John, and easy to dismiss, but I _am_ you." He said pointing at a picture with the caption '_confirmed bachelor Doctor John Watson_'. This is still your bedroom in mum's house but about twenty-three years in the future, or thereabouts. You have a condition." John explained, "It's called Chronodysphoria. It won't be diagnosed for a while yet, and there's no real cure, but it means that you occasionally get stuck out of time without good reason. That's what happened today, you shifted here. Probably the stress over medical school I imagine. Stress seems to be the biggest thing that sets it off."

John didn't look up at the man, _himself_ if the doctor was to be believed – and John really did – he was too engrossed in the picture. The article also had a picture of a man who cut a rather striking figure, with inky dark curls, retroussé nose and absurdly sharp cheekbones. He didn't know who he was, but he desperately wanted to.

"So," he ventured eventually, trying to make light of the situation "confirmed bachelor?"

The older man gave a wry grin in response, "The article's fairly old now."

"So, not a bachelor."

"Something like that." He said, and John couldn't help but notice the way that his eyes drifted to the picture of the mystery man.

John supposed that if someone had to stop him being as bachelor, the almost alien creature in the article was certainly one that he could live with. "Who is he?"

"Him?" He asked, tapping his finger on the picture, "I won't spoil the surprise for you, but suffice to say you'll meet him soon enough."

The doctor's fingers lingered over the picture a little too long for it just to be friendly. "What's he like?"

"The most frustrating, infuriating, socially inept man you will ever meet, but also the best. Trust me when I say if this condition has one upside, he is it."

"Sounds like fun…" John said, not sounding entirely convinced.

"Oh it is, most of the time."

Both Johns had lapped into silence. There was something that was being left unsaid, John wanted to hear the words out loud; some confirmation of things that would happen in the future, some important details, but John appeared to be unable to give those away so easily.

"So if I'm still at mum's house then how did you know to find me here?" John asked just to break the tension.

He brushed the dank hair from John's forehead. "When you're constantly out of sync you learn to make a note of events." Flipping to a page with a hand written note: _20/02/18 – visit from younger self at mum's_.

"Do you have more notes in there?" He asked, itching to search through the pages.

"I do, but you'll find out about those when the proper time comes." The smile offered was so kind and gentle that John couldn't help but feel reassured, even as he knew the onset of nausea and dizziness meant that he was about to go somewhere else, hopefully back home. What was it that John had called it? Shifting? John didn't give instruction but gently motioned for him to lie back down on the bed.

"And John," the man, _John_ said, "He will be proud you know."

"The infuriating man? The one in the picture"

"No. I mean dad. He's so proud of us and what we achieve. I know you feel rubbish right now, dear." The older version said softly, carding his fingers through his teen self's hair. "But it goes fairly quickly, and eventually it'll be worth it. You'll make the right decision, you always do." With one gentle kiss to his forehead the older John sat back and looked over him as the room began to fade once more.

As John sat alone in his own room, in his own time, there was a certainty about his future he had never let himself feel before. He couldn't help but feel that this was the start of something huge.

Feb 2000/May/June 2012

"Fuck." John whined to himself in the near darkness he found himself in. How he had managed to end up in a skip was beyond him, but he supposed that it was far better than ending up in a locked cupboard. That particular instance had not been so much fun.

Despite the regularity that it seemed his older self shifted, he had only done it a couple of times, almost always as a direct result of exam stress, especially when he wasn't so certain of the topic. The chemistry modules he had had to take as part of his medical course had been a great example of that, especially in first year. They had been a lot harder than the things he had learnt at a-level. Give him a quiz on every single vein in the circulatory system any day, as long as he didn't have to talk about optical isomerism and its effects of sympathomimetic activity.

During his shifts in recent years not much had happened, he ran into his older self once, looking more haggard and stressed than before, saying something bizarre about syncing, but aside from that he normally just had to sit somewhere, try to look inconspicuous and wait it out. He had started to think of it as an involuntary survival technique. If his brain was craving more time, or a break from his doctoral paper (six months to get it done, six months before he would have to go through the arduous task of trying to get it published and accepted by his peers. It almost made him sick just thinking about it), then his body would shift him to some quiet secluded spot and he would be able to take a breather.

Or get stuck in a cupboard.

Stressed or not, however, John was not going to wait this particular episode to end in a skip, even if it had recently been emptied apparently. Once the initial dizziness had passed, he managed to get to his feet, peering carefully over the edge of the metal container. It was definitely the case in some areas of the world, that finding a twenty-five year old doctoral student climbing out of a skip was practically tradition, but he couldn't be certain that this was one of those places.

He hopped carefully out and gave himself a quick brush off. Just as he was righting himself a mass of curls and swirling coat strode around the corner with an intense amount of purpose. As they both caught each other's eyes.

"John?" The man asked, questioning his presence or appearance, John wasn't sure which.

"I'm sorry," John said. Though he recognised this man instantly, he still knew nothing about him. "I don't actually know who you are."

He stood there in silence. It felt like he was staring straight into John's soul, it was disconcerting, but John mostly felt a thrill go through him at the notion of it. The silence dragged on for what was probably only a few seconds, but felt uncomfortably long.

"The thing is," John said starting to feel undone under this man's scrutiny, "I have this thing, and sometimes I know people before I meet them, and sometimes they know me and so…"

"Chronodysphoria; I'm well aware of your condition," He said taking John's hand and taking purposeful steps down the street once more, "come along John."

"Sorry," John said again, feeling like he was repeating himself in more ways than he usually did, "but I don't actually know your name."

The stranger stopped stock still, letting the hand that gripped John's drop to his side. There was a flicker of something across his face, but John couldn't define it. It looked something like loss, but it was gone too quickly to tell.

"Oh," he said after he had composed himself, holding out a hand for John to shake, "My name is Sherlock Holmes." The words sounded as though they were uncomfortable on his lips, Sherlock had probably never had need to introduce himself to John before. "We'll have time for more dull chat later; right now I've a rather pressing case to attend."

So _that_ was what Doctor John (as he had taken to referring to his older self) meant by socially inept, but it wasn't so bad, he had imagined much, much worse. He couldn't help but noticed that Sherlock didn't hold onto his hand again as they walked to whichever destination it was they were heading to. If anything suggested to John that they _did_ have _some_ form of attachment, that would have been it.

oOoOo

'_Painting recovered. Collect at earliest convenience. SH_

John sat in the back of the cab, a fortunes worth in art sitting casually on the seat next to him. He kept flicking his eyes back towards it as though it was going to spontaneously combust and it would all be John's fault. Even the slightest wobble was starting to induce mild hysteria. If John hadn't insisted that Sherlock not walk down the street on his slightly twisted ankle, then they would have both been inside the building where at least the painting wouldn't be subject to having the canvas ripped if they turned a particularly sharp corner.

Then again Sherlock's insistence that they get it back to 221B was quite resolute.

An involuntary shudder went through him at the thought of trying to get the painting down rush hour Baker Street. Maybe the taxi wasn't so bad after all.

oOoOo

"Sherlock!" a male voice called up the stairs, "What have I told you about keeping national treasures in the flat."

"Boring," Sherlock said out of hand, probably too quiet for the man to hear from downstairs, but he was sure that he could feel the distain from here.

He bounded into the room, dashingly handsome, but remarkable humble for it, his eyes flicked over to the armchair where John was sitting. "John, I thought we'd agreed that whenever you were here…" but then he stopped, finally taking the time to look properly at him. "Wow."

"He doesn't know anyone," Sherlock explained tersely, "You'll have to introduce yourself."

"What really?" the man, Lestrade – judging by Sherlock's rants earlier in the day, exclaimed. Clearly, he was less able to censor himself than Sherlock had been at meeting this version of John. It was hard to think about; in the here and now he was the oddity, the incomplete version. He didn't measure up to himself. People always said that the only competition you should care about in life was with yourself, but he was fairly certain they didn't mean like this.

John didn't say anything, but he knew his silence said all that was needed on the matter. It was awkward enough being re-introduced to Mrs Hudson, especially since she clearly already had a strong maternal attachment to John.

"Well bugger." He said, looking meaningfully between the two of them, "So you've not…" he made a vague overarching gesture, one that made Sherlock glare at him before saying.

"Clearly not," Sherlock replied as though the effort of explaining the facts caused him a great deal of fatigue.

Lestrade took a while to get his features back under his control, before finally turning to John. "Well then, I'm Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, it's nice to meet you. Or to have met you. Or I look forward to meeting you. I always forget how best to phrase it."

"'Hi', tends to work." John said holding no ill-will towards the inspector. These incidences were always best greeted with good humour and a reassuring smile. It got too awkward far too quickly if John let himself be offended.

Taking a step backward Lestrade appraised John once more, before sheepishly asking, "How old _are_ you at the moment? I've not seen you this young before."

"_Obviously_." Sherlock interjected not looking up from his spot on the sofa.

"Twenty-Five." John said, ignoring the other man. "I'm not a Doctor yet, but I've almost finished qualifying, so I'll be back to how you recognise me soon enough."

Sherlock sat up swiftly looking over at John in surprise, "John told you that you'd become a doctor?"

"_I_ decided that I was going to become a doctor. I just also happened to confirm that I'd made the correct decision. I saw your picture in a newspaper article as well by the way, but he wouldn't tell me anything about you. Told me I'd find out in plenty of detail soon enough." At those words a crimson blush started to creep over John's face.

He wasn't certain, but he felt that Sherlock meant _a lot_, through more than just a normal friendship, to Doctor John. The idea of know this man in _'plenty of detail'_ set John's imagination to overdrive. Sherlock was giving him a look that made him feel, that not only did the detective know _exactly_ what John was thinking, but also that he was completely correct.

"There's always something," Sherlock said, voice taking on a low gravelly tone a million miles removed from the mild amusement and annoyance he seemed to greet everyone else in the world with.

Their gazes were locked in a way that, if John's life were a film, would be a prelude to slow dramatic music and two people drawn inexplicably closer to one another.

"So," Lestrade said clapping his hands to clear the vacuum of Sherlock-and-John, that seemed to be forming, "This painting then?"

oOoOo

As Sherlock dismissed the diamond cufflinks (John's mind boggled at such a gift, he had spent most of his university career eating knock off brand pot noodles and overwarm cider) he started to realise just _how_ socially awkward Sherlock really was.

"He means thank you." John chimed in, not wanting such finery to be completely overlooked.

"Do I?" The question fell from those sharply defined lips, mirth only just colouring the words.

John didn't even look at him, just spoke out of the corner of his mouth. "Just say it."

"Thank you." Sherlock uttered, and even out of the corner of his eye John could see how unimpressed Sherlock still was. Tact here obviously wouldn't be an option.

As the procession of thanks and shmaltzing continued it was clear that Sherlock was getting less and less able to censor himself (the idea that Sherlock had actually censored himself to begin with was almost as unbelievable as the man himself) and becoming cranky in a way that seemed more befitting of a petulant toddler than of the internationally acclaimed genius that all these men professed him to be.

Sherlock was still sipping delicately, or at least pretending to - he didn't know if Sherlock cared for alcohol – at his first glass of champagne, whilst John was trying to keep him entertained enough that he would stop insulting the sponsors of this little event.

"Camera," John mentioned briefly preparing to step out of the way so that Sherlock could get his moment in the spotlight and then come back to stop him biting the photographer, or whatever it was that toddlers did when they were tired.

Sherlock clung onto John's waist, preventing him from leaving.

"I can't be here Sherlock." John insisted, "I don't look…" How could John finish that sentence? I don't look like the older me? I don't look like I will in a few years' time? People might get startled if I've de-aged several years in a few months?

"Don't worry about the photos." Sherlock said turning them both to face the cameras openly, "Your medical condition is well established in scientific literature now, and even if it wasn't the public would just assume that, as you're in the public eye, you've gotten the number of a really good plastic surgeon."

"Okay," John sighed, giving in, "just don't bite anyone."

The hot breath on John's ear as Sherlock leaned over to whisper to him sent a shiver down John's spine. "It's nice to see you haven't changed."

"I think you mean that it's nice to see that I _won't_ change."

"With you, my dear, there is very little difference."

oOoOo

As soon as the case was finished he had ended up shifting to his bedroom at the university accommodation where his essay sat staring at him, working on it was tiring and arduous, but it needed doing, so he was never more completely thrilled as when, for that week, his body had decided he needed an extended vacation, and he could go scarcely more than a day without being dropped back into another of Sherlock's cases.

After Ricoletti's capture (and that stupidly delightful hat, the stupid, deer attacking, Frisbee, ear hat) was over he assumed that, as per usual, he would shift back home, and he did, but as soon as he got there only ten or so minutes actually passed before John realised that he wasn't settling back down into his own time and he found himself shifting once more.

Shifting twice at such speed was not an experience that John wanted to repeat. If he had though the intensity of the dizziness he felt normally was bad, it was nothing compared to this. He barely had a moment to plant his feet before he had to run to politely make use of the bin in the corner of the room. He had no idea where he had ended up, but he hoped that whoever owned this office was understanding.

When Lestrade walked through the door John could instantly tell that he was older than when he'd last met him, or at least a lot more stressed. He was followed closely by Sherlock and the both of them stopped dead when they saw John sitting in a chair looking very much worse for wear.

"You've just gotten here." Sherlock said, and it was clear that he didn't mean by bus.

"I've just thrown up in your recycling." John said apologetically.

Lestrade shrugged, "This place has seen worse. Bad one was it?"

"He went there and came back almost instantly." Sherlock pointed out, "No change of clothes since I saw you last, and, unless you make very precise messes, you've still got the same ink splatter pattern on your right hand. You hadn't even had time to take off the bit of tissue that had gotten stuck to your shoe last we met."

"Less than ten minutes." John said, "So you'll excuse me for not being entirely engaged right now. How long have I been gone?"

"A few weeks." Lestrade told him, so it was stress then that had aged the inspector rather than time. "It's good you're here though. We're going to tower hill."

"Tower hill? Why?" John asked, Sherlock didn't answer but passed him his phone. "Who's Moriarty? Why does he want you to '_come and play_'"

"Criminal mastermind John, he's developed somewhat of a mild obsession with me."

"He's broken into Pentonville, the Tower of London _and_ the Bank of England today, all at the same time it seems. We're heading back down to the tower to review the CCTV footage." Lestrade explained.

"Where is he now?"

"In our custody, but there's something off about it."

One eyebrow was raised incredulously, "Aside from breaking into three of the strongest holds in the world?"

"I wish I could say no."

oOoOo

"Are you ready?" John said, nervously adjusting the tie on his borrowed court suit.

Sherlock said nothing for a moment, taking a few deep breaths as he stood behind the door waiting. John didn't know what made him, but he laced his fingers between Sherlock's and gave him a reassuring squeeze. Though no visible emotion was shown on his face, the small answering "yes." allowed John to feel that perhaps he wasn't being completely useless here.

The shouting outside of the door was intense, and he was very tempted to run back inside and leave Sherlock to it. There was no way that he would be able to help at all in this trial, neither legally nor through any of his abilities as a doctor. He doubted even that he could be classed as moral support at this point. Even if Sherlock needed such a thing, which he suspected Sherlock didn't, John wasn't the _right_ John. Despite his involvement in recent cases, he could still see every time that Sherlock looked at him he was expecting someone different, expecting the version that he knew.

But when they sat in that police car, flashes of cameras putting spots in John's vision, Sherlock's questing fingers found his and the detective visibly relaxed.

Maybe he wasn't the person Sherlock was looking for yet, but he could be this.

"If this adventure is the last I shall see you," whispered Sherlock, "Then I want you to know that you've made my life better in every way."

"Everything will be fine." John insisted, "Absolutely fine."

oOoOo

His heart couldn't take this, he thought that he had made the right decision going to help Mrs Hudson, he didn't think Sherlock could have possibly been so cold towards her, but when she was sitting there, looking for all the world like everything was normal… He wished that his condition was controllable in every sense, he needed to go back. To go back just five minutes and wait with the detective until they could go and bring down Moriarty together.

Richard Brook was a lie and a poor one at that, if there was anyone who could say with certainty that Sherlock Holmes really _was_ the mad genius that he claimed to be, then it was John. He might not have proof in the here at now. But the future was laid out ahead of him.

The ringing startled him out of his thought process, "Hello?"

"John."

"Sherlock, are you okay?" he said into his phone, the one that Sherlock had bought him when he realised that the mobile phone technology in 2000 was severely lacking.

"Turn around and walk back the other way," He said, something was wrong in his voice, John could feel it.

"I'm coming in." John said, trying to keep his tone light, but feeling fraught.

"Just do as I ask. Please."

Walking back was difficult, as though someone had taken all the energy out of him and left him with nothing but the feeling that, no matter what he, shouldn't be here when Sherlock was somewhere else.

"Now look up, I'm on the rooftop." For a moment John looked directly up into the sky, almost expecting Sherlock to be floating in the air above him, but then he noticed Sherlock standing on the edge of the hospital. "I can't come down, so we'll have to talk like this."

"What's going on?" he said, feeling panicked, but not entirely sure why.

"An apology," there was a pause, one that John was loath to break, "It's all true."

"What?"

"I invented Moriarty," Sherlock choked the words out.

Sherlock's words were lies, he might not have known the whole story behind the consulting criminal yet, but he was certain that he was real. "Why are you saying this?"

"I'm a fake; I want you to tell Lestrade and Mrs Hudson and Molly. Tell anyone who will listen, that I created Moriarty."

"Okay, shut up Sherlock, just shut up. You know as well as I do that that's what we do, what we will do. Solve crimes and save lives. You save lives Sherlock, save me. _I_ told me so. Don't ever tell me you're a fake."

"Oh my dear John," Sherlock mutters into the phone, "You've saved my life in more ways than you could possibly know, but I've never saved you. I used you. Used your condition to find out things about these crimes. You tell me everything."

"How have I ever saved your life Sherlock?" John says desperately, pleadingly, hoping for any hints of how he could get this man, this many who knows so much of him and yet of whom John knows so little, back to the ground safely, into his arms and show the world how wonderful he simply _must _be. If he's done it before he must know how to save him now. The rest he disregards, he knows from the way Sherlock had treated him during these last cases that he would never do that to him. It doesn't even deserve comment.

"Now, now, John." He chuckled wetly. The young doctor can imagine that he can see the tears, though he knows that's an impossibility at this distance, "Shan't spoil the game. We've agreed."

"I haven't agreed to that yet." John said, frantic, "You can't hold me to that!" _keep him talking_, John thought, _make him stay there long enough to think of a solution._

"But you will" Sherlock said with something akin to fondness, "Don't worry; that's the strangeness of our situation."

John was fighting for something to say, something that would convey how much he didn't want this to happen, how much, despite having only known Sherlock for a few days really, he _needed_ this man in his life.

"Goodbye John" Sherlock said simply before dropping the phone and letting himself fall spread armed to the ground. Did the fact that he looked like he was trying to crucify himself mean something? Did it really show all he would sacrifice for the sins of the world? For their distrust of his miracles? No man could truly be the messiah.

John felt weak and dizzy, but he surged forward despite it, only to be knocked to the ground by a careless cyclist. As he struggled to his feet he knew that this feeling wasn't just borne from the terrible act he had just seen. He was starting to shift. "Not now" he begged to the world, "Not when he needs me."

"He's my friend" he said loudly and clearly, pushing the front of the crowd that had gathered quickly. He reached for Sherlock's wrist but couldn't hold it long enough to check the pulse before he was pulled away. That was what he told himself at least. The fact that he hadn't felt the slightest hint of anything beating beneath that skin didn't mean anything. Lots of people seemed like they didn't have pulses when their wrists were checked. It didn't matter that John was a doctor trained to detect even the meanest fluttering of life, or that the likelihood of surviving the impact off a building that high was so small that it barely mattered what John may or may not have felt.

He was on the verge of throwing up. He needed to make sure that Sherlock got medical attention, but already he could feel everything fading out from in front of him. He barely managed to throw himself behind a skip so that he wouldn't be seen before everything turned from the noise and aggression of a crowd at a medical emergency to the calm silence of an unhurried street at night.

July 2030

He was very lucky that he didn't throw up over his shoes, but he didn't think that that had anything to do with the shift, so much as his mind finally catching up to what had just happened, or – for all he knew now – what might not have even happened yet. He had to establish when he was and then everything else could wait.

The skip that he had dived behind was no longer there, but no one was around to see him appear out of thin air anyway. It was certainly very fortunate; he hated making mad dashes for cover.

He walked as casually as he was able out of the alleyway. He had learnt that the best way to deal with any situation was walk around as though you belonged there. He probably looked out of time, fashions changed so much, but certain times he could get away with trying to look 'retro'.

The scene in front of the hospital was bizarrely calm. It was almost empty but even those who were there showed no lingering signs of distress or even morbid curiosity about the place. Sherlock had been a legend in his own time, if his death there were broadcast, which he was certain it would have been, then it would become, like so many spots around the globe, haunted by people trying to understand the terrible phenomena that is death.

He couldn't stop his feet from dragging him to the front of the hospital, the image of Sherlock laying there covered in his own blood still seared to his retina.

His mind's eye is the only place he can actually see the blood though. The pavement in front of the building is pristine, but not as if it had recently been hastily scrubbed, there was the normal layer of London grime that clung to the surface of everything on the floor. So either he had travelled to some quiet time before that day, or possibly some time into the distant future. Tracing his fingers along the ground he could almost imagine that he could feel the blood still there, but he knew that such a thing was impossible.

"John." A voice came from over his shoulder. It was changed, but definitely still the same voice, the same tone and the same, stupidly, infuriatingly wonderful man.

"Sherlock?" John asked, voice cracking as he stood up to see if it really _was_ him; the sobs that had been forming in his chest abating, only to be replaced by sharp disbelief.

Sherlock looked over a John with astounding sympathy considering that he, in John's limited experience, seemed to find it hard to engage with human emotion.

"Reichenbach, love?" John nodded slowly. The 'love' was new as well. It seemed so casual as if it was extremely practiced, as though it was a term made familiar over years of usage. Though from the stories that Doctor John had mentioned to him –without spoiling the game of course – their limited contact rendered such repetition unlikely.

Instead of mulling it all over too long John simply nodded uncomfortably and tried his best to look like he wasn't on the verge of a mental and emotional breakdown.

"You're so young." Sherlock said marvelling as he moved forward to brush his thumb against John's smooth skin, bringing with it the tears that had threatened to fall.

"Nah," John said trying to inject a little humour, "It's just you who's getting old."

"Truer words have never been spoken."

There was a breath of pause between them, not as comfortable as sometimes they were, but familiar nonetheless.

"You survived then."

Sherlock nodded. There was little else that needed to be said.

"What happened to not spoiling the game?"

"There are circumstances in any game where rules must be broken." Wry smile clinging to Sherlock's lips.

"Care to tell me how, if we're breaking the rules anyway?"

"Not now. There's not having a regulation blade, and then there's bringing a set of pistols to a sword fight. Both might break the rules, but there are limits."

"What do you do nowadays anyway? Does answering that break the rules?" Asked John, seeing how far the limits could be pushed.

"Keep bees mostly."

"I'm sure you look very fetching in the bee-keeping outfit."

"So I've been told."

Sherlock still hadn't moved his hand from where he had been wiping away John's tears. The action felt so pure, so intimate that John _knew_, even without consciously realising it, that he was in love with this man.

"Sherlock, you don't have to tell me, because you probably won't anyway, but before Reichenbach, when I'm older, were we… something more?"

Sherlock, true to John's thoughts, didn't answer, "Why do you ask?" he said instead.

"Because I feel like I am. As though I'm supposed to be with you. Am I?"

"You know I can't answer that." Sherlock said, but knowing his voice probably gave away enough, John felt confident in his deduction.

"Can we be together now?"

"I'm twice your age, at the moment." Sherlock said with a raise of one elegant eyebrow "I wouldn't blame you for thinking me too boring."

"I believe in reality I am a year your senior." John countered.

"Not quite yet my dear."

"You could consider it as a good way for me practice?" John trailed his fingers up Sherlock's arm and tangled them softly into Sherlock's greying curls. "And after all the trauma I've just gone though I think I need comforting."

"Interesting theory." Sherlock muttered leaning in slowly to press his lips to John's own.

oOoOo

John cracked one bleary eyelid open, cautious against the bright sunlight streaming in through the windows. It took him several long seconds to realise where he was, for a start, this definitely wasn't his bed. It was definitely too soft and too large to be anything university standard, and also he didn't tend to have many dashing older men occupying his bed in the dorms.

Rolling over to face the man warming his side he smiled up at him and gave a little pout. It was enough of a suggestion that Sherlock leaned over and pressed his lips lingeringly to John's, brushing his talented fingers across John's smooth shoulder with almost a sense of rapture and disbelief, not for the first time.

"What is your obsession with my shoulder?" John asked, knowing his voice was thick with sleep and sex. It made him sound slightly like a cat who had just gotten the cream, warm and sated.

"Now that would be telling." Sherlock said with an air of mystery, but tinged with an air of sadness as well. Something wasn't being mentioned here, but John had come to expect it.

After almost two weeks of this he could hardly believe he was lucky enough to still be here. He had gotten almost used to waking up in the arms of the ex-detective, lazy days spent alternately in bed and outside in the country sunshine observing the beehives and Sherlock in turn.

The only thing he didn't see was himself; he was conspicuously lacking. There were tokens of things that John thought looked part way to familiar, but for everything else, Sherlock looked like a long term bachelor.

If Sherlock still loved him, and judging by his reaction to John he still did, then why wasn't his older self in his life? Were they doomed to spend their time waiting on John's episodes, hoping that a random act of nature would throw them together again? Did they fall into the same patterns of feeling like they'd never been apart or did they have two lives? The John-and-Sherlock life lived out of time, and another life lived within the normal confines of society. Did John have a wife? Did he have children? Did he sit at home every day waiting and hoping for a chance to see the detective again?

It all seemed too empty.

When the day came that John had to go back home it was a rather more relaxed affair than he had ever felt shifting before. And as John melted away he was left with the vision of Sherlock looking at him, eyes full of love and hand clasped tenderly around his own.

April 2008

A lot can happen in eight years. Even trying to contemplate how much his life had changed was sometimes mind boggling in and of itself.

Years of working in ER and with severe trauma led to him deciding that the best way to serve his country was to give his skills to help those fighting on the front line. Doing his part for queen and country. He had to admit that he liked the effect that it had had on his body. The way that his improved strength and agility made him feel more secure, as though he was able to help rather than being a hindrance.

It did not help his state of mind.

There were only so many times a person could watch innocent civilians and young soldiers die before it started taking a toll on the way they saw the world.

Even so, the trauma of war was something he didn't think he wanted to leave. He had a purpose here. The battlefield was where he truly made his mark and saved lives. For every injury that he fixed, for every person that he made a difference to, he felt an enormous amount of pride and duty.

He may not have seen Sherlock since the summer of bees and roses, as he privately called it in his head, but the memory lingered on. Whilst he was waiting, this feeling was the closest he got to a sense of doing the right thing, of being in the right place at the right time.

So when, under hail of fire, he shifted faster than he ever had before it was a shock to find that, despite the rain falling over a darkened Baker Street he was still alive and, bizarrely enough, completely dry.

March 14th 2012

"I've some clothes for you John, if you wish to step inside the café toilets for a moment to change." Came the voice of Mycroft Holmes, holding open his ever present umbrella. John had only met Holmes-the-Elder a few times, and the last of those times had been in dire circumstances. John was filled tip-to-toe with rage at the sight of him, but he had no idea what he had done wrong yet, what he _would_ do. How much he would sell his own brother out to a psychopath for an imagined advantage.

"How did you know I would be here?" John asked by way of greeting. If Mycroft wasn't going to exchange niceties then he wasn't particularly interested in them either.

"You can't imagine that you're the _only_ person in the world with Chronodysphoria, John? And not all of them are as scrupulous about keeping the past and the future as separate as you. It's not the most accurate way to gather information, but it has proven to be a useful source on occasion."

"Why can't I just go and change in the flat?" he asked taking the warm clothes from Mycroft and feeling a little ridiculous about being out and about in full army regalia, but having not seen Sherlock in many years just the thought of being this close to him was making his skin itch with urgency, even as the adrenaline of action was still coursing through his veins.

Mycroft's expression was a perfectly guarded as usual, but John liked to imagine that he had seen something slip in that mask. "I wish to speak to you about a rather grave matter before you see Sherlock. And I daresay after the day you've had you'll want a cup of tea."

Changed into soft clothes, John took a seat opposite Mycroft taking a first long sip, before sitting there and waiting for Mycroft to start.

"This matter concerns a woman named Irene Adler."

As with so many things in John's life, he felt like he should know the name, but any real connection to the real world failed him.

"Who is she?" John asked, "I don't recognise her name."

"You won't yet." Mycroft replied placing a hefty file on the table. "I shan't give you the details, I know how you and Sherlock are about _spoiling the game_," he enunciated perfectly with infinite distain. "But suffice to say she's a lesbian dominatrix whom my brother got himself rather entangled with."

"Right." John said, taking a huge gulp of tea just to occupy his mouth and prevent him from making any sudden, stupid comments, but all that was running through his mind was _'fucking hell'_.

"I wouldn't waste your time on jealousy John." Mycroft dismissed, "I'd say he rather detested her by the end of that particular case. I want you to inform Sherlock that she fled the country and managed to get herself into a witness protection programme, she will survive and thrive, and he will never see her again."

"Why would he care? If he hated her so much I'm sure it wouldn't matter to him what happened."

Mycroft sighed, "My brother has the mind of a scientist or a philosopher and yet he elects to be a detective. What might we deduce about his heart?"

"I don't know." John replied instantly, except that maybe in this moment it didn't belong to John. He had waited years for Sherlock, and if what had been between them was just a thrill for the detective, a recollection of being young again… John wasn't sure he could take it.

"Neither do I, but initially he wanted to be a pirate." John nodded, he would love to have been a part of that. Playing pirates with the young Sherlock Holmes, running around what John always imagined was a mansion of a family home, with swords and eye patches. Sherlock would have made them historically accurate of course. John doubted that even as a small child Sherlock would have been likely to overlook the details.

"He'll be okay with this, never seeing her again if he really did hate her, he'll be fine."

"I agree," Mycroft sighed, not bothering to mask his feeling on the matter, "That's why I decided to tell him that."

"Instead of what?"

"She's dead."

In the long discussion of what to do that followed John got more glimpses of what this woman was actually like. The details still illusive for now, but he'd heard enough to know that she was special. Probably the one woman Sherlock had ever had as a peer.

She mattered.

John took the case file from Mycroft, still in his heart of hearts not knowing what he was going to tell Sherlock. He had reached a conclusion, but he was in no way sure whether it was the right one.

"And John?" Mycroft stopped him just as he started to make his way to the front door.

"Yes?"

"I am truly sorry."

John didn't ask what for, but he was fairly sure it wasn't because Mycroft was asking him to lie, or to tell the truth, John wasn't sure which was worse.

"John, you're here. Though you've had time to change it seems, those clothes don't belong to you." Sherlock didn't glance long at John, but gave him a smile that suggested maybe he was right before; he and Sherlock _did_ mean something to each other. "You have news?" he said, face falling a little.

"Yeah, I ran into Mycroft downstairs. Wanted to tell you something about someone called Irene Adler."

"Oh," said Sherlock, looking up once again, "What's happened, is she back?

"No she," John paused. This was the first time he had seen Sherlock in eight years, but it seemed like Sherlock had seen him just yesterday. He might have done for all John knew, but he didn't want the first interaction to be so sour. So painful.

It was selfish as well, the dead could do no wrong. People only liked to see the good side of those they cared about, and unless they did something to counteract that, they would keep on seeing through rose tinted glasses. If she wasn't dead then he wouldn't mourn her, wouldn't think of her as much. Maybe.

"She's in America." He said, unable to tell the truth when he was standing so close to him, reminding him so absolutely of everything he stood to lose to a woman he wouldn't even recognise if he saw her in the street. "Got herself into a witness protection programme. Don't know how she swung it but…"

Sherlock turned on his heel and sat back at the microscope, he didn't want to see the case, but he wanted the phone.

"But I have to take it back to Mycroft."

The phone itself was worthless now, but Sherlock wanted it nonetheless. '_Please don't let it be a token._ John prayed harder than he ever had in his life '_Please let it just be a memento of an interesting case, or a reminder to never get entangled with a femme fatal again. Please._'

He walked over to Sherlock slowly, reluctantly and placed the phone in the palm of his outstretched hand.

"Thank you."

"Well." John coughed, clearing his throat in an effort to stop the tears that were tightening his vocal chords. "I've got to get this back to Mycroft so I'll just." He said turning to face the other way not descending the stairs until he was sure he had at least pretended to try and compose himself.

oOoOo

John wasn't sure whether Mycroft believed that Sherlock really accepted Irene's survival at John's word. Frankly he wasn't either, Sherlock's reaction made it easy to think it true either way. His reaction was a little _too_ calm. A little _too_ accepting.

Until he wanted the phone.

Feeling pained at the memory once more, John walked back to the flat where Sherlock lived. Hoping to fool Sherlock was foolish in and of itself, but he wasn't sure where he stood with the detective. He could have been everything to the man, or _nothing_.

John walked in to see Sherlock pacing by the window almost gleefully, tapping those long beautiful fingers together and smiling manically to himself.

"Are you alright, Sherlock?" he had to ask. It wasn't the normal reaction to being told that you'd never see a person you cared for ever again.

"Of course I am, why wouldn't I be?" He said, and John was inclined to believe him.

It didn't make him feel any better; knowing that Sherlock was happy at the news didn't answer his questions at all. Either Sherlock was glad that she wouldn't be in his life anymore, or happy at the prospect that she was alive, and therefore still could be. Sherlock had stopped pacing and was studying John intensely.

"You know that I love you completely, don't you?" he said.

John didn't know how to respond to that. He was fairly sure that he stood there gaping, mouth open wide. "Y-y-yes." He managed to stutter out through his shock.

"No matter where she is or what happens to her, I love _you_."

It wasn't a confirmation or a denial of Sherlock's potential attraction or interest in the woman, but it did reassure John more than he thought a single sentence could. Instead of answering he walked over to Sherlock silently and wrapped himself around Sherlock's lean torso, burying his head into the crook of Sherlock's neck.

"I haven't seen you in so long." He muttered, feeling the weight of years without this man in his life crashing down on him as he stood there.

"I think I saw you two days ago." Sherlock commented, "I would tell you more, but that would most definitely be spoiling the game."

"So I've not been gone long enough for you to have missed me then?"

"Don't be ridiculous, John." Sherlock said, not answering John's question directly, but it was enough. He pressed a quick kiss to the doctor's lips before letting go and striding away meaningfully. "Now let's sit and discuss what you've been up to."

John followed as Sherlock trailed into the kitchen and rifled through the cupboards to find some tea bags hidden amongst the body parts. He would give them to John to deal with. Sherlock _did_ know how to make tea, of course, but he deleted it.

As John puttered around the kitchen, feeling for all the world like he was home, he kept glancing back at the other man. It didn't seem quite real that he was actually there with him, sitting at the kitchen table with that microscope pressed to his eyes.

He looked up suddenly and John felt absolutely naked.

"You're still in Afghanistan." He stated. There would be no point in denying it. Sherlock had read it on his body as clear as if he had said the words aloud.

"Well not at the moment." John answered with a smile, "At the moment I'm here, with you, so let's just enjoy it shall we?"

"But what happens when you go back John?" Sherlock asked with complete seriousness, eyes quite conspicuously looking towards his left shoulder.

John shrugged, "I'll be stationed there for another three months before I'm given leave to come home. I guess I'll take a short break and then I'll go back; it's what I've been doing for a while now."

"I mean in terms of your clothing." Sherlock replied, John was fairly sure that wasn't what Sherlock meant, but he let the detective change the conversation anyway. "You're wearing an outfit entirely unsuitable for life in a desert country, let alone one at war."

"My kit is just in that bag." John said pointing it out, "if I feel like I'm shifting I'll put it all on and I'll be fine. I'm not sitting around in my kit all the time waiting to leave. That would be a bit eccentric, even for us."

"Please be safe." Sherlock said, taking John's hand as he sat opposite him.

"I could very well stay the same for you." He countered, "At least I know the risks and take every measure to prevent them. You seem to revel in making a nuisance of yourself."

"I'm serious John." There was something about Afghanistan that was distressing Sherlock more than he let on.

And when, later that evening after spending the afternoon re-learning Sherlock, he shifted right back into the hail of bullets that had been showering his patrol beforehand, he realised, finally, why Mycoft was so sorry, why Sherlock always focused attention on his shoulder.

"Watson!"

December 2009

John supposed that it should have been enough of a Christmas present that he had regained most of the use of his arm, but parts of his body had taken to rebelling to make up for it. His hand had a tremor sometimes, not enough to destroy his career in surgery, but enough to make him consider taking a more mundane practice for a while. His leg sometimes throbbed with a dull ache, as though the weeks of focusing on regaining full movement of his limbs had left them scarred. It wasn't very bad. Occasionally he needed to lean on something in order to support his own weight. Fortunately, he hadn't been reduced to a cane as one doctor had suggested. He hated the idea of a cane, the dependence on something to keep him mobile.

And, as was normal, as soon as he had been invalided home he had been given a therapist. He needed to work through his experiences apparently. His therapist commented on him being constantly out of touch, as though he was off in another world, another time. This was normal, she said. This detachment from society was a coping mechanism.

He didn't tell her what he really thought. He didn't tell her that there was no reason for him to work through his trauma. He knew full well that he wasn't in a different world because he was repressing his pain; he was in a different world because that was the place he belonged.

Until Chronodysphoria was a registered medical condition then he wouldn't be able to put into words the conviction with which he _knew_, that no matter how he felt now, everything would be okay.

He just had to wait.

March 12th 2012

When John ended up at 221b Baker Street this time, he hadn't imagined he would spend his entire time verbally sparring with Sherlock over dead pigs and insulting Mrs Hudson's new beau. Normally he dropped in during, or near the start, of cases, not at the tail end of them. Then again he knew he was trying to justify his illness too much. He always liked to think that there was purpose to his movements, but the episodes were just as random as flare ups of any other disease.

He had been glad to be there though, even if he was just the presence of Sherlock, every possible trauma that he had ever felt was insignificant. Instantly forgettable.

Sherlock was twitching around the flat like a madman, in dire need of a case, but even if he was irritated that Sherlock had such a short attention span, John himself sympathised. The need to feel adrenaline was back in force, just seeing Sherlock had sent, not only unconditional love flowing through him, but a thirst for adventure.

So when (despite a few rounds of rather enthusiastic screwing), Sherlock was still ready to tear himself apart with inactivity, John was ready to give his first born to Mr Henry Knight, no matter how unreal the case seemed at first.

oOoOo

"I don't know how we sleep nights." The man behind the counter commented.

"Like a baby." Said the other owner.

He looked up at him with the humoured annoyance one only showed their lovers. "That's not true, he snores."

"Is yours a snorer?"

Sherlock who was still wandering around the pub, probably documenting everything he could as quickly as possible, decided to choose that moment to interject, "John's army training has rendered him a terribly light sleeper. He wears earplugs. Excuse me John I'll be just outside." Pressing a gentle kiss to John's cheek he wandered out of the pub and sat down by the picnic tables.

John's face was held in vague disbelief, Sherlock wasn't a publicly affectionate man, and John wasn't inclined to believe that he had suddenly changed that much and that something in the two days since Sherlock had seen John (though it had been a year for him) had made him a colder man. So that was going to be their disguise this weekend; overly affectionate couple looking for a nice relaxing break.

Just because it wasn't what they had planned for the weekend it didn't mean John couldn't ham it up when required. He'd taken drama at school.

oOoOo

That had been far, _far_ too close. Sherlock was sitting behind the wheel of the car (John didn't like driving at the moment, the action of turning the wheel pulled on his shoulder in just the wrong way.)

"You notice my cheekbones?" Sherlock said after a minute's silence.

"Shut up."

oOoOo

"I don't have friends, John." Sherlock said as John walked away.

He was still furious, so upset that Sherlock had upset him. That was the worst kind of feeling. It was almost as bad as the feeling that he had been entirely dismissed by the man whom his whole life revolved around.

"I just have you. You are more important to me than any other 'friend' I could possibly have."

"Right." But the smile failed to fall off John's lips.

"John! You are amazing! I adore you!" Sherlock said running after him and bestowing him with a short hard kiss.

"Yes, alright. Don't have to overdo it."

"You've never been the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light you are unbeatable."

"Cheers. What?"

"Some people who aren't geniuses have an amazing ability to stimulate it in others."

"Hang on, you were saying sorry a minute ago. Don't spoil it." Though as soon as Sherlock has said, 'ability to stimulate', his mind had quite wandered elsewhere.

It wasn't long before the intimate moment had been forgotten in the heat of action. And John trailed along as he was wont to do, feeling on top of the world.

oOoOo

He didn't talk to Sherlock about what he saw on the moor. Sherlock talked about Moriarty and it made John's terrifying vision seem silly. He saw the hound of course; they all saw that, but his other fear had been something that was all too real to John.

"I despise you. You're pathetic and boring." The snarling version of Sherlock spat at him, "don't bother coming back."

No. John wouldn't tell Sherlock his fear.

If he spoke it aloud it might become real.

Jan-March 2012

"Sherlock."

"What?"

"We are not having sex here."

"…"

"That means stop."

"You don't really want me to stop though."

"..."

"…"

"What did you do that for?"

"You said stop."

"Well not now that you've started."

"John, I've had the most fantastic idea!"

"Does it involve me thinking, because I'm not going to do that for the next few minutes."

"Come along John."

"Hold on."

"What?"

"You've got… Stuff. Just there. Let me get it off for you."

"Thank you."

oOoOo

"I swear if I find fingernails in the toaster again I am making you wear the deerstalker."

"…"

"In bed."

"…"

"And you will like it."

"Let's test that theory shall we?"

oOoOo

"You know, just because I'm here it doesn't mean that we _have_ to find a case.

"But that's the pattern John. You arrive. Big case turns up."

"Not always."

"Not always?"

"I think this is drifting into the region where we start spoiling the game."

"That'll be Lestrade."

"Okay, so maybe you're right."

"Aren't I always?"

"Deerstalker Sherlock. And the riding-crop."

January 19th 2012

Flicking back and forth between his 'real-time' life as he had taken to calling it and his Sherlock life had been the most wonderful and beautiful experience. Every moment he spent with the other man made him appreciate how much they had grown together. Even if John was seeing the effects on Sherlock in reverse most of the time.

He wished that he had taken the chance to have this sort of relationship with Sherlock back when he had first met him. Before the beehives and roses; that first instance. Even though it wasn't that long, the idea that John could have had even a second more of his life like this with Sherlock, and that he didn't take advantage of that, was a terrible thing.

But at least now he was happy. He seriously couldn't have been happier than he was right now; everything with Sherlock was just so perfect that he could scarcely believe that it was actually his life he was living.

So when John landed once more at 221b Baker Street he was surprised to find that what greeted him wasn't casual kisses and an abundance of fantastic and imaginative sex, but friendly greetings and a rather more distant relationship.

John didn't understand.

He didn't push the issue. He simply assumed that Sherlock had some kind of case on that was forcing him to close himself off in his own little world. He knew how Sherlock got. He forwent everything for the thrill of the chase and the completion of the puzzle. He probably forgot his need to sleep so the idea that he hadn't crawled into John's bed that night wasn't immediately a sign that things were bad.

But still, even for Sherlock this was a long time.

So when he realised that the reason Sherlock hadn't come home yet today was because he was with _Irene Adler_, John couldn't help but assume the worst, perhaps when she was in town Sherlock was involved with an affair with her. Not that John and Sherlock were married, or had even ever stated that they were exclusive. John had just assumed. Perhaps that was why Sherlock will be so adamant about keeping her phone.

John decided that for now the best thing to do would be to avoid Sherlock, not purposefully, but not sit around the living room waiting for him to arrive, like some jealous housewife. Sleep was the sensible solution to being unable to relax that day; he had always been able to force himself to sleep no matter the situation, even if he woke up again soon afterwards.

There's a soft plinking floating its way up the stairs when John opens his eyes. He hadn't been asleep for more than an hour, just enough time to recharge his batteries, and now his body had decided that it was time to have a cup of tea; the solution to all of life's ills.

Sherlock was sitting in the flickering firelight, plucking at his violin strings with no particular, or at least no apparent, pattern in mind. Unconscious movements of the fingers designed to make it easier for Sherlock to brood.

"What is it?" John asked sitting in the armchair across from Sherlock, Sherlock had a look on his face that could only stem from him overthinking something. The combination of that and the listless way he was treating his violin told John it was something fairly distressing and foreign to Sherlock.

"She held sentiment, John."

"You're going to have to explain a little bit more than that." John said, forgoing tea for now in order to appease his… his Sherlock.

"The Woman, John, I told her that sentiment was only found on the losing side, but I find myself thinking that I could be wrong."

"Oh," said John, lump forming in his throat. He didn't realise that Sherlock thought him weak, surely he realised that throughout their relationship that John felt the same sentiments (or possibly even greater sentiments) towards Sherlock.

"I've come to understand something John. Though feelings, chemical and baseless, do exist, it doesn't mean that they are a weakness, not if bolstered by someone else's strength. Feelings are only a force of destruction when unreturned... and I'm certain, a certainty that I hope you'll forgive, that there are as many chemicals rushing around your bloodstream as there are in mine."

"Can we speak plain? Please Sherlock." John whispered voice thick with emotion, there was something suck that just wouldn't disappear.

"We're in love John. It's clear to me now." Sherlock's confident conclusion would have caused John to laugh, it was so typically Sherlock, and if only John had been normal, if only he could have lived his life the _right_ way then all of this would have been wonderful. But that wasn't the way his life played out.

As Sherlock grew close and pressed the most beautifully tender kiss on John's lips feeling probably only elation and triumph, he on the other hand felt his heart shatter in his chest. It was the first of everything for Sherlock, the first love, the first kiss, the first time he was intimate with John in this way. For John, everything was the last.

This possibly the most unique breakup in the history of the world.

December 25th 2011

John hated Irene Adler almost as much as he adored her.

He knew that Sherlock cared deeply about her, although in the future he would deny it fervently, and although she was the catalyst for everything Sherlock and he had been or, in Sherlock's case, would become, she also signalled the end of everything between them.

He had met her when she returned from the dead. He knew that she was stringing Sherlock along then. She had him wrapped around his little finger, and he could do _absolutely nothing_ about it. It had already all happened for him.

And this Christmas was exactly the same, with that perfect red box sitting on the shelf for Sherlock to find. The phone that would signal her apparent death.

When Sherlock came back from the morgue (and poor Molly for putting up with it) his face said so much more than his words ever could.

'_I could have changed this_', he thinks to himself, but he doesn't know how. He hadn't told Sherlock that she was alive by the time she came back and he can't have told him before today or his reaction would have been so different. Searching the flat for drugs in the wake of Sherlock's devastation was not something John ever wanted to do again, especially not over a woman who treated Sherlock this way.

This was one of the times he hated his life, everything seemed so set in stone, if there was something he could have changed he would have already done so and therefore rendering the need to do so unnecessary.

Too tightly intertwined to even try to untangle the knots.

Sherlock was sitting by the fire again, composing music this time, a sad melody that would forever be reserved just for her. He wondered if Sherlock had song for him, he hoped so desperately, but he would now forever be unable to ask.

"I know it to be false, John; feelings, emotions. So why is it I feel like this?" Sherlock said, violin now resting uselessly on his knee. The pain absolute.

John didn't try to talk to Sherlock about feelings or try to convince him about their nature or try to counsel him through them. He knew that Sherlock would understand in his own time.

"I don't know."

He granted himself only a few moments. Only a few minutes to let the bitterness build under his skin, for his stomach to turn and his eyes to well up, before he would push them back behind some locked door in some dark and forgotten corner of his mind.

There was no way he was allowed to give himself any more time than that; he had to get his emotions back under control. He had never felt jealousy quite like this in his life; Sherlock must have been able to _smell_ it, it was so strong, but he would have no idea why. Why he was jealous when, to Sherlock's mind, there would be nothing there to be jealous of?

That was when he made his decision.

He would be the very best friend he could, and nothing more, to Sherlock through the rest of their time together; it was too precious to waste.

September 15th 2011

"Why are you not here again?"

"I'm not leaving the flat for anything less than a seven. We agreed." Sherlock informed him adjusting his sheet through the screen. John resisted the urge to capture a video for personal use later.

"You're the one who complains about how little we meet. And when did we agree?"

"Well that's entirely your fault," Sherlock insisted, "You're the one who decided to drop in on such a dull case. And you agreed last Tuesday."

"Really," John said incredulously, "And the fact that I haven't been to last Tuesday with you yet and therefore I have to take your word for it is just a coincidence I'm sure."

"Purely," Sherlock said looking intently at the screen, "Turn me around."

He was hardly surprised at the way that Sherlock handled the DI, he was even less surprised at the way he had torn the poor misguided suspect to pieces without even realising it, even the fact Sherlock seemed to think he was doing the man a favour wasn't that much of a surprise.

The fact that a helicopter landed for him _was_.

oOoOo

He was fairly certain that Mycroft knew he recognised her, though he couldn't be certain. He sipped his tea slowly so that he wouldn't say anything out of turn. He was well trained in keeping his words and his comments in the moment, but she was, as reluctant as John was to admit it, so important.

His stomach clenched as Sherlock looked over the photos. She was exceptionally beautiful, not just in the traditional proportions, but in the way she had pure, raw sexuality, and she knew it well.

Sherlock was eager to pursue the case, but John knew it wouldn't be very long before Sherlock was longing to pursue her.

He was relieved in a way. If this was the start of the Belgravia case, then soon enough he would never have to think about her again.

August 1st 2011

When John commented jokingly on Sherlock's inability to solve the case of the dead aeroplane passenger he had expected it to be casually brushed off, and then forgotten about.

What he did not expect was a huge argument.

"Do you know the solution?" Sherlock asked, surprising John.

"No," John said honestly, he didn't know if Sherlock ever found out the solution either. "No, I don't."

"But you do know the solution sometimes." Sherlock said, voice rising with tension.

John shrugged, unsure of how to answer, "Rarely," he said, "I don't tend to…"

"But you'd never tell me the answer is that correct."

"No." It would change their whole dynamic if they did. "You wouldn't want me to."

"I want answers." Sherlock told him, but John knew he was wrong.

"You don't want answers." He told him, "You want puzzles. You want the case and the thought process. The solution is just the way to mark the end of the game."

"Maybe if you told me the end point I could work out the solution backward."

"We _both_ promised Sherlock. No explaining, no hints, no '_spoiling the _fucking _game_'."

"I only promised because you told me that we do."

"Does it not occur to you that I am in exactly the same position?"

"No," Sherlock insisted, petulant, "because I won't ask that of you. You are the one who was selfish enough to ask it of me."

John was one more well aimed comment away from livid, "But you do, because you did." John all but shouted, "And that won't change."

"There's not even any point in having this argument with you! You won't know it's happened the next time I see you and clearly you'll never mention it to me."

"Well at least we agree on something." John spat bitterly, it didn't feel as good as he had thought it might.

As Sherlock violently threw himself on the sofa in a huff John realised that Sherlock was right, they couldn't even have an argument normally because of him.

Why did he do this to himself?

May 9th 2011

The only time they meet in sync is 6pm on May the 9th.

He sees a figure through the crowd and _knows_ something is different. This is the man that he had known his entire life, it was impossible to not know intimately how different this situation was.

There was no running, no adventure, nothing but that perfect moment, that turning point, and John thought to himself with impossible sadness, 'Why couldn't they have live their lives this way entirely?'. John knew what was coming for Sherlock, just as Sherlock knew what lay before John, by this point both of them had had a conversation about spoiling the game and it was just a matter of waiting to see how their paths would unfold.

And when he sees him, in his own time, not a second out of time, he looks at this man whom he has known all his life and yet in this moment knows so little of, he loves him more than he has ever loved another.

When Sherlock saw him he waved the other man over instantly, there was an eagerness there, the certainty that John's presence heralded another spectacular case, but not this time. This time was just those two going about their daily lives in a city that swept them along and swallowed them whole.

It doesn't take long for Sherlock to spot the medical journals that John was reading, the satchel over his shoulder that showed he was on his way back from work and John can see the instant that Sherlock realises how different this moment is, how unique.

"John." He says, in that way, that broken way that John never wanted to hear again, breathless and harsh. It was full of the pain of disbelief. All this time, John could have found Sherlock. They were so close to each other, London was a vast city and it was perfectly possible to never so much as glance at many millions of the people who lived there and yet John was so close. How many times had Sherlock failed to observe? John knew that it was certain that they never met in real life but for this moment in time.

This was the moment where it would revolve again. Both he and Sherlock would start seeing younger versions of each other rather than the future versions. As John had gotten older the cases were getting closer and closer to the present, and now they would move to the past.

When he reached Sherlock he stood there feet planted firmly to the ground in front of him looked deep into those eyes, and said nothing.

April 1st 2011

"John." Sherlock says in that way again, or, if John thinks about it properly, for the first time.

Sherlock sees Moriarty for the first time as well, though at this point he is all too familiar.

Nothing is new, nothing is original, and yet every single time one or other of them was living these experiences for the first time.

He knew Sherlock wouldn't die now. He knew it was unlikely that he himself would either. He knew that Jim Moriarty would survive.

And yet despite that, John was in the moment, it had taken him a long time to realise.

Just because it had happened before, doesn't mean it can't be experienced.

Even if that experience isn't always good.

March 27th 2011

John never regretted shifting when Sherlock was involved. Even though in those moments he was in such great pain, knowing what could be and what wouldn't be again, at least not for him. Even though it ripped his heart out every time.

John thought that with Sarah he might be able to move on. If he met her in the past then he definitely would have a chance to get to know her better in his present.

But then the gangs came and another mad case and even after everything. Even after her being tied to a chair and almost skewered. When Sherlock was in the room he could see no-one else.

Love had blinded him to the possibility of new love.

He might as well have had paint sprayed into _his_ eyes for all that he could see.

January 29th 2011

Standing smack bang in the middle of Russell Square fountain was not where he expected to find himself when he shifted. He was lucky that he had been there whilst the fountain was on low, because as soon as he was sitting on one of the many benches around the edges the fountain shot up to its full height without warning. If he had been there even a few seconds later he would have gotten much more than mildly soggy ankles.

It was a long way to walk to Baker street and even though the number seven was waiting right there at the bus stop he didn't have even enough money in his pocket to get a pint of milk, let alone a deposit on a new oyster card.

All he had on his person was a handful of coppers, an out of date – or not yet in date – ticket from Paddington to Swindon and his old mobile phone.

Resigning himself to spending several hours on his feet he started the long walk towards 221b.

It was reassuring to see the same sign on the door every time he made his way there, it seemed like he was connected to the world somehow, like no matter what, that sign was a constant. He didn't even have his key to the place with him, but he knew that even if Sherlock wasn't home, Mrs Hudson probably would be. He knocked loudly and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

The door was eventually answered by someone he didn't recognise at all, a nondescript woman with her hair tied back in a messy bun, red in the face from physical exertion.

"You with the moving van?" She asked with a thick scouse accent, huffing as she brushed a stray hair from her eyes, "You're a bit early; I've not finished packing away the kitchen yet."

"No, I…" he said, hardly able to believe this woman's presence there, as though she violated the perfect certainty that the house created. "Sorry, is Sherlock there?"

"Who?" She asked, starting to look annoyed.

"Sherlock Holmes?" He tried again, heart thumping loudly in his chest.

Shaking her head she gave him a look that suggested she didn't believe that John had given her a real name, "Sorry mate, there ain't no Sher-Luck here, I think you've got the wrong 'ouse."

He didn't even realise that Sherlock hadn't always lived at 221b. He always seemed so rooted there, as though his sprawling world grew from that one spot.

Now what was he going to do?

There was a homeless shelter down the back of the Brunswick, he didn't know if it had been rebuilt yet after the fire, but it was his best hope for a good night's kip before he figured out what to do, or hopefully until he shifted back.

oOoOo

It had been almost a week of this, dull, repetitive and making him incredibly anxious. It was almost enough to make him start limping again, but not quite, fortunately. Hanging around Russell Square Park avoiding the other homeless people in the area was his main priority, if anyone thought it strange that he stayed there, then they didn't mention it.

Running into Mike had been the best thing that had happened all week.

"Where are you staying?" Mike asked him casually, "Just hanging around here until you get back to normal?" Mike had never been very good at subtle, he tended to blurt out loudly about John the time travelling doctor when they were at uni together, it wasn't any great surprise to him that, despite his age, he still hadn't really grown up.

"How did you guess I was out of sync?" John said with a half-smile.

Mike smiled back, but didn't answer, taking a long sip of coffee, "Couldn't Harry help?" he asked,

John just scoffed, "like that's going to happen." Harry always though that John was insane and had, on more than one occasion, tried to persuade their mother to get him committed, despite overwhelming evidence that he was, in fact, telling the truth.

"I mean, I would offer myself, but I've got residence at the hospital. Couldn't you, I don't know, find someone who needs a temporary flat-share or something?"

"Who would give space to a complete stranger? I'm not exactly a stable investment right now. I don't even have my cards with me. And anyway, who'd want me for a flatmate?"

"You know," Mike laughed, "You're the second person to say that to me today.

oOoOo

"This is an old friend of mine, Doctor John Watson."

As John drank in the sight of Sherlock he found himself unbelievably relieved, even if he lived somewhere else now, he would always let John kip on his sofa. He expected Sherlock to point out to Mike that they already knew each other and perhaps enquire as to where he was and what time he had come from. But none of that came. Instead he disregarded him completely.

"Can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine."

"What's wrong with the landline?"

"I prefer to text."

"Here," said John, casually as possible, though desperate to get Sherlock's attention. "Use mine."

"Oh, thank you." Sherlock replied, seeming honestly surprised. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

Sherlock hadn't even looked up from the phone, so he really _didn't_ know John.

"Sorry?" He said, realising that he hadn't quite processed the idea of Sherlock not knowing.

"Which was it - Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John was almost proud of how quickly that Sherlock had deduced that about him, but he was bitterly disappointed that Sherlock had had to.

"Afghanistan, how did you…" he began to ask, hoping to engage Sherlock in conversation, to get back some of what John had so suddenly lost, but he was interrupted by another all too familiar stranger.

"Ah, Molly coffee. Thank you." He said gratefully taking the cup from her. John could see her pain, she clearly hadn't gotten the message yet that Sherlock wouldn't look at her that way. She wouldn't understand that it wasn't her fault for a long time. "What happened to the lipstick?"

"It wasn't working for me." She said, shy and small, so similar, but too different to the woman that he knew.

They were both so incomplete.

"Really? I thought it was big improvement, you're mouth's too… small now." He said walking away with a wave of his hand.

"Okay." She replied and scurried off, clearly not wanting to be unintentionally humiliated again.

"How do you feel about the violin?"

John was still looking towards the door and to where Molly had disappeared. "Sorry?" he said focusing his attention on his not-yet-everything once more.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking." _I know_ "Sometimes I don't talk for days on end." _I know_ "Would that bother you?" _Never_, "If you're to stay with me, we should know the worst about each other.

"Who said anything about me staying with you?" John said, not letting himself feel too hopeful just yet.

"I did, I was mentioning to Mike earlier that I was having problems finding anyone to stay with me. Now here he is, just out to lunch with an old friend. Clearly suddenly without a place to stay. Wasn't a difficult leap."

"I've got my eye on a nice little place in Central London; it should have more than enough space for the two of us. We meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

"Is that it?" John asked, hoping for something more, something that would show him that he knew more than he let on; that he wasn't just picking John at random.

"Is that what?"

"We've only just met and we're going to go look at a flat?" He asked, surely even for Sherlock that was too much.

"Problem?"

"You don't know a thing about me. I don't know where we're meeting. We haven't even been properly introduced yet." It didn't matter that John knew Sherlock inside out; he didn't want to believe that it was only Sherlock's flippant nature that threw them together. He _had_ to mean more.

"I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him—possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And your therapist thinks you've got attachment and commitment issues, quite right too I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?"

The dramatic exit was so very Sherlock that John had to stop himself from following as he normally would. So he started when the detective came back in with a sly smile and a quick wink.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street. Afternoon."

John stood there shifting his weight from one foot to the other and staring at the closed door.

"Yeah, he's always like that."

John sat down and put his head in his hands. "I know." He told Mike, not needing to explain further. He was glad that it seemed Mike had developed just enough tact not to ask questions; he wouldn't have been able to answer then now.

This was the beginning of the end.

oOoOo

Seeing Mrs Hudson again, seeing the flat in complete disarray despite the fact that Sherlock couldn't have been there longer than a week; it felt like home. He could have almost said he was happy again. And then then he was called to a case and it all just clicked.

Sitting in a taxi with Sherlock though, although completely familiar, was tense for him. He hadn't explained to Sherlock the nature of _them_, he hadn't had the chance yet.

"How did you know about Afghanistan?" He had to ask, Sherlock had seemed to certain, so sure, but knew so little about him.

"I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself said military, you've got an interesting freckle pattern on your hands that suggest past over exposure to the sun, none of that pattern above the wrists, you've been abroad but you weren't sunbathing. You've got a hint of a limp when you walk, like you're in pain, but it comes and goes without reason so the problem is probably psychosomatic, whatever injury you sustained it was traumatic, so wounded in action then. Where's a doctor likely to get himself sun-exposure and wounded in action these days? Afghanistan or Iraq."

John sat there gaping, he hadn't realised that Sherlock could still amaze him so thoroughly. He had thought that Sherlock had always known him so well because he had met him several times before, but this proved that that wasn't necessarily the case. He let Sherlock continue and just sat there and absorbed it.

He might not have been quite the Sherlock that John knew and loved, but he was pretty damn close.

oOoOo

Meeting Lestrade was more comfortable than John anticipated, even with the dead body in the room.

"Lestrade, this is Doctor John Watson."

"Nice to meet you," he said, shaking the man's hand. It was novel to be introduced to everyone like a complete stranger, when he knew them all so well.

"I just got a terrible sense of déjà vu." Lestrade commented shaking John's hand.

"Welcome to my life." John said not caring to explain any further yet. He would understand soon enough, but rather than looking confused, as the doctor has expected, Greg just smiled knowingly. Sherlock had taken his eyes off the body for long enough to glance back and forth between the two of them questioningly.

There was a lot that John knew he would never understand.

oOoOo

When the black car came along and he met Mycroft, he expected another conversation where John was guarded with his words and pretended as though everyone was new to him, but Mycroft was seemingly above not knowing anyone.

"So pleased to meet you again John, it's been quite some time hasn't it?"

"Mycroft." He said simply, trying to counter Mycroft's question was a minefield of potential disaster. There was very little that he believed he could say that the elder Holmes couldn't use to devastating effect. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Can't I just be interested in meeting an old friend?"

"You never meet people without reason, Mycroft."

He didn't answer straight away, fishing a little notebook out of his pocket and flicking through it.

"Trust and commitment issues it says here." Tapping the page with one long finger.

John didn't understand. "What?"

"His condition makes him reluctant to form lasting commitments in his own time-stream, instead preferring to live his life through his 'episodes'."

"How did you get that?" That session had taken place in the future from now, at the current time his condition was only starting to be noticed in a rare few medical facilities around the world.

"When was it you decided to live your life through Sherlock? Were you always that committed to the well-being of complete strangers, or was he an exception?"

"I live my life the best I can." Said John, avoiding the real question.

"What are your intentions towards Sherlock Holmes?"

"I don't think that's any of your business."

"Oh, but it is."

"Are we done?" John said, not wanting to spend any longer with the power play addict. He started to walk away, he'd find his own way back to Baker Street even if it killed him.

"2015, John." Mycroft called after him.

He knew he was rising to Mycroft's bait, but he couldn't help himself, "Sorry?"

"I'll need your answer by then."

oOoOo

It wasn't the first time that John had done something illegal for Sherlock, but it was the first time that Sherlock knew that. The invitation to dinner accompanied with that honest, open smile that so many people never got to see Sherlock give, made everything feel like it was normal again; back to how it used to be.

Sitting down inside the restaurant at the table in the corner John found it hard to understand _just_ how much Sherlock had grown in just a few short hours.

It'll all fine, he said when Sherlock so easily deduced his feelings, but he knew that Sherlock didn't realise how fine it was, how fine it would become. He was so young, so reckless, unfinished, not the great man who swept him off his feet in fifties when he hadn't even qualified as a doctor, not yet the man whose humanity shone so strongly every time he was with John during those times where he was in and out of streams in a way he could barely fathom. Here in front of him this Sherlock was young, beautiful and completely broken. And John feared he would never see him again.

The thought made him a little sick inside.

"There's something else about you John." Sherlock said, looking at him intently. "Something you're wondering if you should tell me. I have to say though, that if you're worried about my reaction, I think I've seen enough to know where I stand with you."

Would it be too much? Would Sherlock be upset or angry?

John knew that he'd have to risk it.

"I have a rare condition." John said, deciding that he had to explain.

"You're not dying." Sherlock said, "You don't carry yourself the right way."

"No, I'm not dying," Agreed John with a laugh, "but this is still very important."

"Go on then."

"I have a condition called Chronodysphoria. I don't always live in the time I'm supposed to."

"Literally?" Sherlock asked, "Or does your perception of time change?"

"Literally," In fact he could feel an episode coming now. Too soon, he was leaving too soon. "I can't control when it happens or where I go, so it's not very useful, but I meet you a few times."

Sherlock clearly was hovering on the border of disbelief, to a mind as logical as Sherlock's something that, in this time, seemed like such a flight of fancy would be difficult to rationalise.

"You know me." Sherlock stated. It wasn't a question, it was fact. "How?"

"Now, now," John said, remembering these words echoed back to him, so far away, no matter which direction he travelled. "Shan't spoil the game. We've agreed."

He wonders if that means he said them first, or if Sherlock did, or if, by some strange fate, they were each copying each other's words until they gained their own life, until they perpetuated themselves.

He smiled at him, gazing across the table at that final dinner and kept his eyes fixed. If this was the last he'd ever see him again, he wanted to remember it perfectly.

"You'll see me soon Sherlock."

He just wished he could say the same thing for himself.

June 2012

John sat at his desk feeling somewhat dejected. The world was still talking about the 'suicide' of the world famous detective and John couldn't even tell them that they were wrong. The world might know about his condition, but that didn't mean that they wanted to listen to him when he spoke of the future. It was too terrifying; people didn't like to feel like their lives were predestined.

Writing the blog seemed pointless now. The only thing he ever wrote about (admittedly to try and keep a track of the jumbled timeline that was his life) was Sherlock. Now that he was no longer the subject of his occasional musings and tales, then there seemed little point in documenting them anymore.

Sherlock would be a constant presence in his life but he knew from his own experience in Sherlock's future, that it would no longer be a physical one. Was it wrong to mourn a man who wasn't dead? To mourn the 'what if's rather than the man himself?

John didn't know.

He sat with his fingers over the mousepad of his laptop. Cursor hovering over the _delete_ button. Did he need the blog now? Was there any point in keeping words out there that no-one believed? He certainly didn't need to keep a track anymore, so why was he so reluctant to close it up and move on?

His fingers were trembling slightly.

Leaving his laptop where it was he decided to go for a walk. He could delete the blog later.

October 1999

John landed with a thump. Clearly the artistic installation steps that he had sat on when his symptoms first appeared no longer – or hadn't yet – existed whenever he had found himself and as such he had arrived about four feet above the ground. It wasn't the most ideal situation, but he had experienced far worse.

He was so sure that he would stop shifting as soon as Sherlock no longer recognised him, but clearly he had been mistaken. Maybe that he had no more to do with Sherlock he would travel for some other reason.

It was unsurprising however when the first soul that John saw when he looked up was Lestrade. Everything revolved around Sherlock in some way.

"Greg" he shouted. The DI was always understanding about his condition and had always been around to point him in the direction of somewhere to stay if, for whatever reason, Baker Street wasn't open to him.

"Greg!" he tried again, far louder this time. Lestrade gave a half glance in his direction; the same sort of glance that people gave when a child had the same name as them and was being called by their despairing parents in the middle of the shop. People paid attention to their own name – it was just human nature – but it was an instant that was overridden by the urge to avoid contact with strangers. A person had to make an effort to speak to people that they didn't know, it was always much easier to not talk to people than to try and engage with them.

This did not bode well.

"DI Lestrade." John said eventually making his way over to the man.

Greg raised his eyebrow "DI?" he eventually queried. That took John aback; as long as John had known the man he had been the head of the homicide investigations and if he had been given sudden promotion in the future then he certainly wouldn't have ignored John; definitely sometime in the past then.

He should have known then, it was clear as John drew closer to the other man how much younger he was than John had ever seen him. The hair should have been somewhat of a giveaway but spotting people beyond the definitions of their age was a skill that John had yet to pick up.

Remarkably, though he couldn't have been much past his mid-twenties, he was still incredibly grey although he probably could have gotten away with saying it was his natural colour at this point in time. He didn't look as tired, haggard or world-worn as he sometimes did, especially after a long and stressful case. Maybe becoming the DI had made him more hardened, more cynical. Maybe he had just spent too long in this job. Either way, this young, easy-going, but somewhat perplexed Lestrade, was actually quite refreshing to see.

"My apologies" he said immediately, trying to ease the tension that had formed, "My mistake entirely, I'm Doctor John Watson."

"Are you new with forensics?" he asked with some measure of reserve.

"Something like that,"

"Have the lab lads come up with any cause of death yet?" he asked, seeming a little desperate to be divulging such information to a person who he appeared to not even be sure of. "We've got no leads on our end so far.

"No," said John, feeling confused as to why Lestrade seemed to trust him without being aware of it. "Nothing. Have you brought in Sherlock Holmes yet?"

"Who's he?"

Oh god.

Sherlock didn't talk much about his life before cases, but John had worked out enough, and Mycroft had dropped enough hints, to know that it wasn't good. A haze of terrible things that would haunt Sherlock, the transferal of addictive personality still a strain on him for many years to come, even if those energies had been made into something good.

He needed to find him.

"Look, I've got to head back." He told Lestrade, "but do you have a phone number I can call if something goes wrong?"

"Yeah," Lestrade, giving John a number for a landline.

This didn't bode well _at all_.

He had found the newspaper that told him it was 1999. He was fucked, there was no way that the twenty-two-year-old Sherlock had a mobile phone, and even if he did he doubted very much that it was the same number as before.

He had no idea of where to start, but he started heading towards Baker Street anyway. There was no way that Sherlock lived there, but it gave him something to do whilst he thought of how he was going to find Sherlock. He had no idea why he was so certain that he needed to find Sherlock, but he had learnt a long time ago not to ignore his convictions.

When he walked past a hospital he was so surprised to see the young Mycroft Holmes walking through the door with a bouquet of fresh flowers that he did a literal double take. Crossing the busy street he rushed to follow him, but by the time he got through the door Sherlock's brother was nowhere to be found.

"I'm sorry," he said, going over to the receptionist, "but did Mycroft Holmes just come in? I need to talk to him."

"Yes, he's just gone up to the cancer ward to see Mrs Holmes."

John wanted to ask for details, he hadn't realised that their mother had had cancer. Sherlock certainly never mentioned it to him before. He didn't need to ask though, for the receptionist was clearly somewhat of a gossip and started explaining to him anyway.

"Poor things," she said, "It's been tough for the both of them ever since they lost the baby, but I really don't know how he's going to cope now the treatment's stopped working."

"How long does his wife have?" he asked, it was risky to ask, but he had never realised.

"I'm sorry, what did you want to talk to him about?" She said, possibly ignoring the question, or possibly now suspicious of John's motives.

"I need to talk about his brother, Sherlock." John said, hoping that the use of first names would regain her trust.

"Oh," she said, clearly used to hearing people talk to Mycroft about his brother, "_him_" she sneered. "What's he done this time?"

So John was right. This _was_ the time where Sherlock was in a breakdown, Lestrade had described it as a terrifying mess once, he didn't want to disturb Mycroft during this ordeal he was going through, but John didn't know how long he would be here, and he _had_ to fix things.

oOoOo

Mycroft's wife was quite beautiful, even in this late stage of her illness there was a brightness about her, her eyes were dark, warm and loving, and clearly she adored her husband. He could imagine that her hair used to be dark curls the colour of chocolate, though they were long gone now.

They weren't speaking, they were just holding hands, he was rubbing his thumb over the wedding ring on her finger and alternating between looking at it and then at her face. Capturing every detail as much as possible.

He hovered at the door, not wanting to break the bubble by knocking. He couldn't hear what she said, but her lips moved and Mycroft looked up at him. "Sorry," he said knowing that Mycroft was waiting for him to speak, "I don't mean to interrupt, but I was wondering if I could talk to you."

Without speaking he leant looked over at his wife who nodded. He kissed her hands, then her forehead, and followed John out of the room.

oOoOo

Mycroft was surprisingly easy to convince when it came to explaining his condition and eve n easier to convince that, despite appearances, Sherlock was a great man, _would be_ a great man. And his help was offered freely.

"So you can go back in time?" Mycroft said, "You're able to change things?"

John could hear the hope in his voice, and couldn't prevent his own from cracking, "I'm truly sorry Mycroft," he said, "but it doesn't work like that. It's not something I can control."

"Alright." He replied.

His was face impassive, but the mask that Mycroft was fashioning for himself wasn't complete yet, and John, not for the first time, wished he could do something more. Mycroft would forever tell Sherlock that caring was not an advantage, but it was never clearer than now, that Mycroft didn't practice what he preached.

"And you're sure that this will help him."

"I honestly thought you might be reluctant," John said, stirring the horrible hospital grade mud water that passed for coffee. "But yes, I'm certain."

"Doctor Watson, I have lost my son and soon I am to lose my wife. Do you not think that there was the slightest possibility I would _not_ lose my brother as well I wouldn't leap at the chance?"

John's eyes were drawn to the way that Mycroft twisted his wedding ring around his finger, he had never thought about it before, but now he noticed it, he realised that Mycroft would wear that ring the rest of his life, a token of a moment long since passed. Sherlock was right; he did see, but all too often he didn't observe.

"Okay," John said, "What do we do now?"

"Leave it to me."

oOoOo

Mycroft had left the job to Lestrade, as much as he cared about his brother he knew, especially at the moment, that he would garner no positive reaction from making such suggestions himself, he was certain that whatever he suggested, Sherlock would do the opposite, just to be ornery. Lestrade seemed like the best choice.

They found Sherlock at a bedsit just outside of Camden lock market. John went with him, but they agreed that he wasn't able to have contact with him, though he couldn't resist hovering outside the door.

Sherlock was lying on the sofa, limbs askew as if keeping them all together was far too much effort, his curls were even more wild and unruly than usual, and his clothes, although still expensive and well cut, were poorly cared for, crumpled on his too-thin frame.

"Has my sister-in-law died yet?" Sherlock drawled, not bothering to sit up when Lestrade walked in.

"I don't think so." Said Lestrade, not entirely sure of how to behave around the young genius.

"Then why does Mycroft feel it necessary to bore me with his messengers?"

"I don't know anyone called Mycroft." It was a bad lie, but Sherlock didn't seem to care that much. "I'm here about something different."

Sherlock hummed in response, clearly not interested or engaged in anything the young constable was saying.

"Is that really cocaine?" Lestrade asked pointing to the bottle of solution clearly labelled on the side.

"That depends entirely on who's asking."

"I am." Lestrade said simply.

"But who are you?" he said, sitting up before Lestrade could answer, deducing the man he looked the most alive he had since the exchange started. "You have a girlfriend of four years who you're interested in proposing marriage to, but mostly because you think it's expected. She also has a history of faithlessness and you think that it might be the only way to make her commit to you. You had an argument about living arrangements recently and you've been sleeping on the sofa of your friend's fourth floor flat for the past two, no three nights and you're allergic to his new pet cat, although you're too embarrassed to admit it."

Throughout Sherlock's long and sharp speech John could see Lestrade getting more fascinated, and irritated, by the moment. He didn't respond directly to Sherlock's remarks, but knew, undoubtedly, that there was too much talent there to waste. Even if it did come in rather a difficult form.

"I have a case that no-one has been able to solve."

Sherlock just hummed his disinterest, the police had always shot down his theories before despite them being almost one hundred per cent accurate. John knew from the Carl Powers case that Sherlock had always been interested in solving crimes, but that his voice was rarely heard.

"I've been told you could solve it."

He lay back down again shrugging, "Probably."

"I'll make you a deal." Lestrade said taking on an air of confidence, "You give up this," he said nodding towards the cocaine, "and I mean all of it, and I'll let you in on the case. I'll let you in on any case that we can't solve."

"And why would I want to do that?" said Sherlock, feigning disinterest, but John could hear that something was clicking with him.

"Because the only time you're ever happy is when you're solving puzzles."

John felt his body fade again whilst the details were being smoothed over. But he closed his eyes, content, and let it happen. He had done his part.

June 2012

John found himself back in the square. Hopefully no-one took much notice of a man appearing out of thin air these days. It was his only hope for not being spotted or set upon by the media crews that seemed to enjoy following him around.

When he arrived back at his flat his laptop was still open on the delete screen. His blog hovering on the edge of existence.

Just because there wasn't a reason for him to keep writing it anymore, it didn't mean that it didn't deserve to be read. He owed it to the man that Sherlock had become, despite being so close to the edge, he owed it to Lestrade for saving the man he loved, he owed it to Mycroft for doing so much to help his brother despite the pain it put him through.

He owed it to himself.

He went back to the homescreen and opened a new post.

_He was my best friend, and I'll always believe him._

March 2015

It had been several years since John had shifted more than a few minutes. He hadn't missed the feeling, although he did miss what they had brought him. He was glad he had started back at the trauma ward in his local hospital, and therefore closer to his comfort zone, his life was still, compared to the life that he used to lead, relatively dull.

But that was okay, he was happy to at least realise his life was a bit dull, rather than to have never known what such adventures felt like.

His birthday arrived without ceremony as per usual. For someone whose life revolved around it John was ridiculously bad at keeping a track of time, so when the knock arrived at the door he didn't know who to expect.

He certainly didn't expect him.

"Happy birthday." Sherlock said, suitcase by his side. His hair was very short and dyed blond, his face was as close to tan as John had ever seen him and his clothes were unlike anything that John had seen the detective wear before, but it was definitely him.

"You're here." He uttered, unable to believe his eyes.

"I'm here."

"In sync."

"In sync."

"Stopped pretending to be dead then?" he asked.

Sherlock smiled softly, "It would seem that way, would it not?"

John didn't speak for a few moments, both of them still hovering in the doorway.

"Is this okay?" Sherlock asked eventually.

John couldn't speak, but nodded anyway.

"Can I come in?" he asked

John stepped to the side and Sherlock dragged the suitcase into the hallway.

"How long can you stay?" John had to know, if there was even the smallest chance.

"However long." Sherlock told him, "It's done now. Forever if you want me to."

Forever? He thought pulling Sherlock into a hard desperate kiss. John could certainly live with that.

July 2030

John felt this one, he knew it was coming like a migraine building in the back of his head, he hadn't had one in _years_ He knew that this _had_ to be the beginning of a shift, but it still caught him by surprise because was so certain that his life had settled, that he no longer had a reason to keep following Sherlock through time. That finally catching up properly with Sherlock had stopped the pendulum, halted his movements, left his centre of time ticking steadily onwards, just as it did for everyone else.

But when he thought about it, it made so much more sense, Sherlock was in his fifties now, just as handsome and charming a silver fox as John remembered him being during his younger years, but now that John was leaving he knew that he would be usurped (though only temporarily) by a younger model.

Was it really possible to be jealous of oneself? John certainly felt it right now.

He had to find Sherlock, just tell him before he left that it would be fine. He felt stupid for doing it, staggering down to the beehives unprotected when he knew that Sherlock would be able to deduce everything when he arrived at the house to find John no longer there and a cup of industrial strength tea going cold next to the hearth, but he had to go.

John hesitated by the end of the garden, they were a pretty docile breed that Sherlock had inherited from the house's previous owner, and whilst he originally stated that he had to time for such nonsense as bee-keeping, he quickly found their logical and methodical patterns of behaviour fascinating. Adoring the challenge of mapping them all when mapping the life of a human became too easy. They were about the only sort of pet Sherlock could stand.

Clean, independent, clever.

"It's alright John," Sherlock called to him, "I haven't opened them, they'll be quite calm if we don't get too close."

John was starting to feel a bit queasy, it was definitely starting now, he should have come when he first felt the twinges of it, but he had be so certain that it was just a headache. He had no time to explain, but at least Sherlock would see.

"John," Sherlock uttered, "Is it happening?"

John nodded, already feeling the tug, "I'll be gone for a while, but don't worry, you won't be alone."

Sherlock smiled in reply, though he didn't seem to happy, "Who then?"

"Shan't spoil the game, love." He uttered. "There's a note in the scrapbook."

And then he was gone.

_April 2073_

He was surprised to find that he hadn't gone anywhere. The house was still there, wicker armchairs that sat on the front lawn were still there, even the beehives were still there. The only thing that seemed to be different between then and now was that everything here seemed older. Not messy or uncared for, just a little worn down, like a comfortable pair of old jeans.

He walked into the house through the open front door, hoping that it was still their house and he wasn't walking into a stranger's front hall.

Everything was dark and quiet, there was nothing to alert John to what had happened, but there was a sadness across the house. Under the kitchen door he saw soft light, someone was still awake.

He pushed the door open gently and peered his head around the corner.

"I thought you didn't shift anymore." Sherlock said softly into an overfull tumbler of whiskey. Judging by the almost empty bottle on the table to his left, it wasn't his first.

He was old, very old and had that sort of hair that old men had that was almost purely theoretical. Completely white and see-through, but still with that natural curl John had been pleased to see grew back, even after Sherlock abused it in the three years he was missing.

"Is everything alright?" He asked sitting across from Sherlock, the fumes slightly overwhelming.

"Take a look and make a deduction," Sherlock said, not looking up, "Does everything look alright?"

This was most definitely the house of someone in mourning.

"When did I…?" the word _die_ wouldn't quite leave his lips.

"The day before yesterday," Sherlock said, "I think at least, it's getting a bit hazy."

"I love you." John said simply, thinking it might have been some strange uncertainty that caused Sherlock's grief, uncertainty was the only think that had ever seemed to affect the detective so much.

Sherlock didn't smile, not in earnest, but at least there was something other than hollowness in his eyes.

"I know," he replied, "that's why this hurts so much."

Hastily putting down the tumbler, Sherlock started coughing violently into his hand. Picking up an oxygen mask from beside him he took a few deep ragged breaths.

"Are you okay?" John said, tears welling up in his eyes.

The smile given to him was soft and caring, "You're still so young, John. I'm ninety-seven. My vision is poor, my hearing worse, my memory is failing me and so is my body. It's hardly a surprise that I need help every now and again."

"You always were rubbish at asking for help."

"But you always gave it to me anyway."

"I can't disagree with that."

And so John knew that was what he would do, he would help Sherlock in every way he could.

oOoOo

Over the next few days Sherlock deteriorated rapidly, his body had not taken too kindly to the large amount of whisky that its owner had put through its system and with his natural decline, it was only a few days before he found himself bed ridden. It had taken rather a lot of convincing for John to make Sherlock take tubes of oxygen rather than just using the mask.

"If you keep the mask on all the time, then how are you going to ramble at me?" John insisted, "That would be a terrible tragedy."

Every night Sherlock fell asleep with John watching over him and, when the time came for Sherlock to finally go, John was there holding his hand.

"Thank you," Sherlock muttered as much as he could, "For not leaving. I didn't want to be alone."

"You did the same for me." John told him, stroking his forehead.

"I love you." The words were rough and raspy; he wasn't going to last much longer.

John echoed the words back in a soft whisper staying there with Sherlock's papery hand in his own until eventually, surrounded by love, he slipped away.

September 2030

John's return to the cottage left him feeling raw, like a wound that hadn't quite healed. He hadn't let himself cry the entire time that he was there. Though sad, it was perfect. Neither of them died alone, both of them had the other to comfort and care for them right to the end.

But it didn't help John's emotional state in the here and now.

Sherlock was sitting in garden with a teapot and two cups on the table. There was no way that Sherlock could have known John was going to turn up at that moment, but he had brought the second cup out with him anyway. John couldn't help but smile at the idea that John had taken a cup with him every day, ready to pour him tea if the need arose. He couldn't help but be overwhelmed by love for this man, everything they were and everything they did together.

"John." Sherlock said, smile bright and happy. "It might be a little strong now, but there's tea if you would like some."

"Yeah," said John, unable to hold back the emotion. "Yeah, tea would be good right about now."

"Is everything okay?" Sherlock asked standing up to meet John who still hadn't moved.

"Not really," John said finally letting tears fall.

"What happened?" Sherlock asked him, leading him gently by the wrist to sit down.

John shook his head, and grabbed onto Sherlock's hand, refusing to let him go until he squeezed in next to John rather than taking his own chair. "I can't explain." John told him, "But it's a good thing really."

"Are you sure it's a good thing?" Sherlock asked, wiping the tears from his face.

"Yes, it just hurts that's all."

Sherlock didn't reply, he knew he wouldn't understand what had happened if John wouldn't tell him, but he would be there to make sure that John was okay.

"Sherlock, you don't regret meeting me do you?"

"Never."

"You won't regret it, even if it hurts too much in the end?"

"Even then, love." Sherlock insisted.

And John was okay with that.

There would come a time when things would be difficult, just as there would come a time when things would be easier, but John knew deeply and without doubt, that with Sherlock there would be no regret.

Only love.


End file.
